Storming the Fortress
With its towering cliffs, precarious hanging roads and stunning scenery, the Vercors region of France should be teeming with riders. But as Cyclist discovers, it’s blissfully tranquil
They call it “The Fortress”,’ says Roger from the driver’s seat as I sit gawping through the window of his car at the foreboding cliff faces of the Vercors Massif, stunned that something so dominating could appear so quickly from behind a bend in the road. Yellowgrey limestone rock intermingles with swathes of luscious green vegetation, pouring into gorges and spilling through valleys to create a truly unique, and slightly daunting, citadel.
Roger and his wife Teresa run a cycling holiday business, Velo Vercors, out of a converted villa in the town of Saint-jean-enRoyans, just at the foot of the initial ramps of the massif, and it’s there that we’re heading now.
‘I used to live down the road in Romanssur-isère when I raced in France full-time,’ explains Roger of his former years as an ex-pat racer. ‘That’s how I first discovered Vercors. The training was just fantastic and I eventually thought, “I’ve got to go back.” Nobody knows
‘Nobody knows it’s here because you’ve got the Alps on one side and Mont Ventoux on the other. It’s an undiscovered gem’
it’s here though because you’ve got the Alps on one side and Mont Ventoux on the other. It’s an undiscovered gem.’
Nestled conspicuously in what is known as the Prealps (Alpine foothill territory spanning from Lake Geneva to Nice), it’s easy for eyes to miss the italic lettering of ‘Vercors Massif’ when perusing a map of southern France. But what the area lacks in snowy peaks, 25km climbs and destinations immortalised by the Tour de France, it makes up for in mysterious tunnel passages and cliff-hanging roads, rural French pastures, and a welcome lack of tourist hordes. It is, in short, a place that has seemingly been created for bike riding and, as our car pulls into the Velo Vercors driveway, the urge to get out and start pedalling is hard to suppress.
Calm before the storm
It’s mid-september, and the morning feels typical of late summer in the mountains: the
air is just on the pleasant side of fresh; a slowrising sun paints deep orange hues onto the cliff faces high above, and the sky can’t yet decide whether it’s going to opt for misty or clear. As we sit outside eating breakfast, looking up at clouds slinking their way into The Fortress under the guard of the limestone ramparts, I feel a mixture of trepidation and impatience. I fear our assault on the great plateau will not be quite as stealthily executed as that of the slyly creeping cloud.
We kit up, make final positional tweaks to the bikes, fill our bidons and begin to weave our way through the streets of St Jean to find the beginning of our loop, a 145km tour of the massif. Bronzed locals watch the world go by from the comfort of their doorsteps: ‘ Bonjour, bonjour.’ Cafe owners wipe down their tables, and small vehicles that look far from road worthy clatter through the town square. It’s all very European, and I’m tempted to make an early coffee stop and just wallow in the gentle ebb of daily life, but I shake it off and turn my attention to pedalling.
It’s only when we’re within spitting distance of the blockade that a tiny hole in the adjacent cliff reveals itself
Our first few kilometres skirt the western flank of the plateau, through shady walnut groves and over a series of agricultural bridges spanning the streams making their way off the plateau, destined first for the Isère river, and then the mighty Rhône.
In the quaint town of Pont-en-royans, a place in which every building appears to be perilously stuck to a cliff, we traverse the Bourne river, and in doing so cross from the department of Drône to that of Isère. But more importantly, we’re also granted a glimpse into the massif interior through a gap in the cliff, forged by the Bourne river and only just wide enough for a single lane road to slip through. It leads to the Gorges de la Bourne, before climbing up onto the plateau, but Roger insists the time for our assault on The Fortress is not yet upon us. At ease, soldier, at ease.
Reference to the Vercors Plateau as a single entity is easily done, but it’s something of a misnomer as both ‘Vercors’ and ‘Plateau’ originally refer to specific areas within the massif at large. To the north west, and against whose defenses Roger has planned our attack, is the largely forested Coulmes region, a place of wild gorges and even wilder cliff-hanging roads. East of that is the Quatre Montagnes region, a popular ski destination during winter and home to an extensive cave system, including the Gouffre Berger, which at -1,122m was until 1963 thought to be the deepest cave in the world.
South of the Quatre Montagnes are the High Plateaux, which unsurprisingly are home to Vercors’ most elevated peaks, with La Grand Veymont the highest at 2,341m. The final piece in the jigsaw is the Vercors Drômois, home to the town of La Chapelle-en-vercors, and layer of claim to be the original Vertacomirien, which is what the natives are known as. The Drômois is typified by meadows of grazing sheep, moving up and down the hillsides of the plateau with the seasons, as well as breathtaking gorges such as Combe Laval and Grand Goulets.
This tangle of plateaux, gorges, canyons and rivers made inter-regional travel and communications an arduous task throughout Vercors’ history, and the separate communities were once very isolated. Roads have since been carved, and the regions of Vercors have become increasingly unified, but long detours are still an inherent part of journeying around here, and it’s no doubt because of this that exploring the region by bike is so enjoyable. Where the motorist loses, the cyclist gains.
Roger has ridden this road hundreds of times, but it seems the novelty doesn’t wear off
Battle stations
We roll into the village of Cognin-les-gorges, and Roger, following signs for the Gorges du Nan, signals to turn off. The first buttresses of the plateau erupt out of the ground in a wall of green vegetation ahead of us, but the road manages to find an opening in the thick forest and begins to pick its way back and forth up the face of the cliff.
The easy pace of our opening 30km is quickly forgotten as the little ring is engaged and the conversation stagnates amid heavy breathing. But after only a few switchbacks the road seemingly comes to an abrupt halt directly ahead of us, as though a landslide has tumbled across its path. I look over at Roger a little confused, but he merely smiles and continues riding on. It’s only when we’re within spitting distance of the blockade that a tiny hole in the adjacent cliff, no more than two metres in diameter, reveals itself, allowing the road to make a 90° turn and funnel discreetly into it. The roof of the tunnel feels so low that I can’t help riding with a stoop, and I slide my sunglasses down my nose so as not to crash into something in the gloom, but this 30m stretch of darkness is like a portal to a new world, and we exit it like the children of Narnia into the heart of the Gorges du Nan.
The road we find ourselves on has been dug, or more likely blown with dynamite, into the side of the cliff, and all that separates it from the perilous drop on our right is a meager foot-high wall. Roger has ridden this road dozens, if not hundreds, of times, but it seems the novelty
doesn’t wear off: ‘Pretty amazing, huh?’ he says as I gaze up through the gorge, past the interlocking spurs of limestone cliffs and dense forests to the edge of the plateau high above.
Behind us a slit between the two sides of the gorge reveals a view back across the Isère and its surrounding walnut groves, but those rolling roads are a thing of the past now, and we’ve still got another 12km of climbing before we reach the Coulmes plateau.
Once out of the Gorges du Nan the landscape becomes more expansive as the plateau starts to reveal itself. It’s hard to gauge just how much height we’re gaining because we have now become insignificant specks on the hillside.
As we press on, a trickle of riders appear, slogging their way up an incline ahead. ‘ Bonjour, ça va?’ I say to the rider at the back of the bunch when we draw up level, although I suddenly regret it when I realise I haven’t got a clue
what he’s saying in response. ‘Er, Anglais,’ I timidly offer back. ‘You’re English? Dude, why didn’t you say?’ It turns out this mini peloton of Québécois has journeyed over from Canada, and they are only too keen to proffer elaborate descriptions of the routes and climbs they’ve discovered in the past week. When I learn that there are more than a few crossovers with our ride today, my eagerness almost has me clicking up a few sprockets and racing to get to the next gorge, but I remind myself to rein it in. There’s plenty more riding ahead.
The termite mound
The top of the Coulmes plateau is covered with forest, and for a moment we are hemmed in by trees, but soon we round a corner and are transported into yet another world as the Gorges de la Bourne comes into sight. It’s different from the tight, ravine-like Gorges du Nan. It’s simply vast. Standing at the edge of the valley we’re granted a view that stretches for miles across the green-filled gorge, the sea of flora broken only by a series of limestone monoliths, stacked like the tail of a stegosaurus before they converge into one at the plateau.
I let Roger take the lead as we begin to descend – the road is a mere sinew, and his knowledge of its twists and turns is crucial if we’re to take it at speed. My attention is still being wrested by the view though, and before I know it I’m playing catch up, occasionally catching a fleeting glimpse of Roger framed against colossal scarps of rock, or appearing through gaps in the trees on a hairpin below.
Once we reach the valley floor we turn left and begin to head east up the valley, tracing the Bourne river all the way to the top, and once between the cliffs it’s like navigating the passages of gigantic termite mound.
It’s hard to gauge how much height we’re gaining because we have become insignificant specks on the hillside
The road is a little more travelled than that of our first climb, but the two-lane carriageway is still almost entirely traffic-free, and there are countless tunnels, overhangs and sheer drops to delight over as we ascend.
We skirt through the south-west corner of the Quatres Montagnes region as we reach the top of the climb, before turning south and making our way across the valleys of the Drômois. Roger points out a dark, gloomy tunnel behind a gated entrance with a sign saying ‘ fermée’: ‘That’s the old Grand Goulets road,’ he says. ‘They closed it in 2005 after there were a few motoring accidents, but the road is still perfectly useable.’ (When I get back I search the internet and duly discover that the abandoned passageway, built in the 1840s, is a playground of tunnels, overhangs and precipices). ‘I don’t understand why they don’t reopen it for cyclists and walkers,’ Roger adds. ‘It’s spectacular down there.’
The sun continues to resist the probing clouds above, and we make the most of its warmth with a café au lait in the village of La Chapelle-enVercors, right in the heart of the plateau and surrounded on all sides by rolling green hills, before tackling the southern leg.
A ride on the wild side
Despite having made our way onto the plateau, the road is still sneaking upwards in an undulating fashion – two steps forward, one step back – as we skip between valleys, cross over streams and negotiate our way through the countryside. To the east is the Parc naturel
Despite having made our way onto the plateau, the road is still sneaking upwards in an undulating fashion
régional du Vercors, and the towering heights of the High Plateau, devoid of any human residence, roads or infrastructure. The view along the outermost cliffs, running from north to south, and of Mont Aiguille, the natural obelisk reminiscent of Utah’s Monument Valley, is a spectacular one that only hikers have the pleasure of seeing, but I can imagine its presence on the other side of the partition nonetheless. Along with knowledge of the park’s re-introduction of griffon vultures and the iconic alpine ibex goat, the feeling is of a wild frontier. ‘There are wolves in there, too,’ says Roger helpfully as we amble past a particularly thick portion of forest.
The southernmost point of our ride takes us past a deserted ski station and through a tunnel to the top of the Col du Rousset, a 20km climb that winds its way up onto the plateau from the town of Die. From our vantage point we see the road slinking down the hillside; the only trace of life in an otherwise untouched, forested panorama. The density of the green, the magnificence of the limestone cliffs and the hazy bluishness of the mountains stretching
out into the distance have an air of South America about them.
‘It’s funny. From here on south, it’s very Mediterranean,’ Roger says, bringing me back a little closer to home. ‘It looks different, the climate is different, and there are loads of vineyards.’ And had we taken a more direct route to here from St Jean, I muse, it would potentially all be ripe for exploration, too.
We whizz down a few hairpins of the Rousset – they are just too irresistible – before turning round hesitantly and continuing on our way.
Our excursion to the Col du Rousset vista has allowed our odometers to creep over 100km, and as we turn back north and drop into Vassieux en Vercors we also enter the final third of our loop. Vassieux itself lies as the only settlement in a natural rectangular plain – technically known as a polje when found in this karstic limestone relief – and walled on all sides by wooded mountainside. I spot the carcass of a burnt out plane on stilts, surrounded by the distinctive sight of uniform war graves, and Roger is quick to inform me that Vercors was a key stronghold of the French Resistance, and Vassieux the scene of a bloody battle during the Second World War.
We stop and reflect for a moment at the memorial cemetery, nestled at the foot of a towering wall of trees, before clawing our way back out of the basin to what is the highest point of our ride, the Col de la Chau, at a modest 1,337m. Some unemployed ski lifts show that it’s still high enough though, and I drag my gilet out from my pocket after Roger happily reminds me: ‘It’s all downhill from here.’
The final push
As we descend through the trees, a sign announces our entrance into the Fôret de Lente, a 3,000 hectare wilderness of wolves, wild boar, wild sheep and deer. Similar to the forests we passed through in Coulmes and the High Plateau it’s a managed state forest, and originally it was the transportation of its timber that provided the impetus for building the road we’re about to negotiate, clinging to the side of the Combe Laval gorge and known as the Col de La Machine.
During the 19th century, at which point logging was the main economic draw of the Vercors region, the network of trails linking the inner plateaux with the surrounding trade towns, including St Jean and Die, became insufficient. It was decided that a more efficient route off the plateau was required for the horsedrawn timber carts, and so after the successful building of the (now defunct) Grand Goulets road, work began on the Combe Laval equivalent in 1861. It wasn’t until 1898 that the road was completed, after construction methods that reportedly included men dangling down the cliff armed with bundles of dynamite, who placed them in cavities and then swung out of the way before detonation.
We pass a small hotel on our left-hand side before the road drops off with a little more purpose, and then – not for the first time today – as we round a corner the view of the vast circular gorge of the Combe Laval reveals itself from seemingly nowhere.
Cutting almost 4km into the plateau interior, the Combe Laval’s grandeur is only exaggerated by perilous vertical cliffs, hundreds of metres in height, that surround the perimeter, and by
Cutting almost 4km into the plateau interior, the Combe Laval’s grandeur is only exaggerated by the vertical cliffs
the low-lying cloud swirling menacingly in its belly. We stand overlooking the precipice from the top of the Col de La Machine, bathed in a supernatural light that is a result of the late September sun grappling with the thin layer of cloud.
The climb (that we’re about to descend) is 13km back to St Jean, and its summit, at 1,011m, perches almost 900m above the valley floor below. The road trickles off to our left through a tunnel, before reemerging further down from a vertiginous hole in the cliff, with sheer faces both above and below.
While coasting our way back to base, in and out of the Combe Laval tunnels on a narrow shelf of road and looking out across the abyss, the scenes are nothing short of spectacular. Our victory at the Fortress is complete. It’s time to beat a retreat.
Joshua Cunningham is currently on a solo bike ride around the world. He should have made it to Southampton by now
We stand overlooking the precipice from the top of the Col de La Machine, bathed in a supernatural light that is a result of the sun grappling with the thin cloud